


The King

by Lochinvar



Series: The Song of Wandering Aengus [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, BAMF Dean Winchester, BAMF Sam Winchester, Blind Dean Winchester, Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, Civilians, Curtain Fic, Dean Winchester Loves The Impala, Demons, Domestic Fluff, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, F/M, Happy Ending, Heaven, Hell, Kansas, Lebanon, M/M, Men of Letters (mentioned) - Freeform, No Smut, Old Age, Original Character(s), Original Female Characters - Freeform, Original Male Characters - Freeform, POV Third Person Omniscient, Pie, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Protective Sam Winchester, Service Dogs, Slice of Life, The Impala (Supernatural), War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 13:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19151875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar
Summary: Retired Dean Winchester wanted to finish his pie, but those annoying tourists were looking for a genuine Hunter. So, he told them a story.





	The King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/gifts), [Paradigmenwechsel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradigmenwechsel/gifts), [InTheGreySpaces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InTheGreySpaces/gifts), [ADeedWithoutaName](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADeedWithoutaName/gifts).



> I own nothing; rely on the talent and kindness of strangers. 
> 
> No Beta; all mistakes are mine to claim and bear.
> 
> Kudos and comments and bookmarks much appreciated - thank you.
> 
> Rated Teen to be on the safe side. No sex or overt violence, but boys kissing and some off-screen mayhem.

 

Since the demise of most things Supernatural, after the successful intervention of a healed Nephilim and a newly rebuilt Heaven, the world was safer.

And more annoying.  A critical mass of civilians had learned the truth behind what was once considered fantasy. Coupled with the pervasiveness of late 21stcentury communication technology, it meant _Everyone Knew Everything_. Or thought they did.

The worst part of retirement for one of the last of the legendary Winchesters? A plague of tourists had descended on the American Heartland, including Lebanon, Kansas. They were looking to inhale, up close, the magic of what was called the _Hunter Era,_ which had acquired the same romantic tenor and wrong-headed collection of myths as had the 19th century American _Wild West._

\-----

That night Dean Winchester was sitting in his favorite chair at his favorite table next to the big picture window, cranked open to catch the evening air. It faced west into a sky kissed with red and gold, overlooking a meadow of prairie grasses at the edge of a stand of trees, which had been planted as a snow fence by a civic-minded town council member decades before.

At his favorite Lebanon restaurant, by which we mean the only one in town, the _Lebanon Café._

He was trying to focus on an exceptionally good slice of old-fashioned apple pie a la mode. The baker, a retired professor of classics who used to consult for the Hunter community, grated fresh cinnamon into the crust. The pastry, locals said, was so flaky and tender as to make it more like apple shortcake, without the whipped cream.

Made the old man very happy.

His favorite waitress, Sally May, owned the café. She was a sweetheart from rural Texas with a voice like orange blossom honey poured slow over sourdough pancakes. Had a bit of crush on the ancient hero. (Dean had maintained his Hollywood good looks into his second century.)

He turned his head when he caught the scent of lily of the valley and waited to hear the faint rustle of a starched cotton apron.

Sally May leaned in so the fabric would brush against his cheek. She greeted him with deference, as if he were a busy person and she was intruding on his work day.

“Good evening, sir,” she said, with the good manners she learned growing up in the Piney Woods of East Texas.

Then he felt her soft skin as she reached down to cover his right hand with hers.

He laid his left hand on top and gave her a squeeze.

“When you gonna run away with me, sweetheart?” he asked as he did every night, a ritual between old friends. He turned her hand over, leaned down, and kissed her wrist.

The light from the fading sunset danced over the Enochian symbols on the silver band on his left hand’s ring finger.

“Thought you were taken, sir,” she whispered, as she did every night. She removed his prehistoric Jayhawks ball cap, bleached a faded green, kissed the top of his head in return, and set the cap back in place over thinning white hair.

Every evening, she made sure that his knife, fork, spoon, coffee cup, water glass, plate, and napkin were exactly in the same place. Exactly. Cut his nightly wedge of pie extra thick. Always added the scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream without his having to ask. 

\-----

Sally May had nailed the blunt-nosed pewter hook at the correct height into the varnished, knotty pine wall next to his chair, so that Dean had a place to hang his silver-tipped, dragon-headed cane.

It had been carved from a narwhal’s tusk, a thing of beauty and positive energy, a gift from Pastor Jim Murphy and Castiel. The ancient Adept and the Angelic warrior were devastated when they couldn’t heal Dean. His eyes had been torched by a friendly fire blast from a magical malediction, a weaponized Curse almost as powerful as the Mark of Cain.

This Curse was one of the last-resort weapons of what was referred to in the textbooks as _The Conflict,_ the final battle that defeated Hell and its axis of terror and pain. It was, in effect, a Supernatural bomb of considerable size and power, which took out a suicide brigade of 3000 demons.

The green-eyed Hunter stepped right when he should have stepped left. Brother Sam Winchester caught him as he fell. Laid him down on the edge of a stony ridge overlooking the carnage below. Took up a sword and roared. Split the air with his grief. Led the Allied forces, aka the Good Guys, and vanquished the surviving villainous spawn of Hell back into the Caves of Doom, never to be seen again.

Sam returned to find Dean in the arms of his Angel. He was alive, without pain, thanks to the Seraph, but the Hunter would never see again. The effects could not be reversed, even with a bit of borrowed Nephilim grace.

That war had ended more than a generation before. Most of the surviving Hunters eventually chose to move on, their souls welcomed with pomp and ceremony into a newly refurbished After Life.

Dean stayed on Earth, outside Lebanon in the Bunker. He took to retirement surprisingly well. He had old and new friends, his music, his books, and his pies. Still liked to cook. Memories to share. And his Sammy. Of course. Excursions in Baby, sitting shotgun, driven by the latest in a series of teenagers from town, who treated the task as the highest of honors. Windows open, and the old songs blaring.

Sometimes, the old Hunter would find his way into the Bunker’s garage on his own and climb into the driver’s seat. Talk to Baby and nap. In his dreams, they were all together, the people he loved packed into the old car, his father driving, flying up a celestial highway.

The elderly Impala would hold her best boy in her arms, content, and dream along with him.

\-----

The eager-beaver tourist family with the three noisy, misbehaving teens (the parents were no better) invaded the restaurant, seeking the Real Hunter experience. They didn’t know who Dean was, exactly, but his frayed plaid flannel shirt and faded ball cap were as much a hero’s uniform as chaps and Stetsons were in a previous century.

Sally May attempted to run interference. However, the family’s noxious crew, loud and rude, was immune to her polite admonitions that the old gentleman wanted to be alone and enjoy his dessert in peace. Sidestepped her, shoved chairs they snatched from other tables into position, and sat, uninvited and unwanted, at the old man’s table. Snapped their fingers to beckon her and yelled for menus.

Saint that she was, the café’s owner didn't grab Dean’s walking stick off the wall and beat the idjits over the heads and out the door. She delivered the menus, disappeared behind the spacious counter, brought back a tray of water glasses, cutlery, and crackers, took the orders, and smiled as she walked back to the kitchen.

The same sweet smile she used to lull her five older brothers into a sense of false security just before she dosed their food with laxatives and locked the door to the bathroom of the spacious ranch house where she grew up.

Their good-humored parents yelled “We tole ya fools to leave your little sis alone. We warned ya,” as the boys fled in unison, rushing out the back door, racing to the relative safety and privacy behind the farmyard’s tool shed, unbuckling belts and unzipping pants, and stumbling over loose underwear, but not quite fast enough.

Meanwhile, the rest of the patrons, Lebanon regulars, whispered among themselves and settled in, comfy like, ordering extra rounds of coffee and dessert. A gaggle of off-duty cops in the big corner booth called their spouses and sweethearts on the devices implanted in their throats (state-of-the-art in the last years of the 21st century), urging them to come down right quick to the  _Lebanon Café_ for The Show.

\-----

Dean wore dark glasses to hide the black, bone-deep, skeletal scars that tattooed raccoon rings around his eyes and burrowed into the sockets. Refused skin grafts or replacement orbs, even the new-fangled ones grown from organic tissue that looked pretty good. They could not give him back the sight destroyed by primordial magic, so cosmetic camouflage meant little to him.

His extended tribe of neighbors and shopkeepers and old comrades from decades-old cases no longer flinched when he took off the glasses to wipe his face or tilt his head to feel the warmth of the noonday sun.

Or when he slipped them off in the Bunker and placed them on the table on his side of the big bed. The current generation of new and improved memory foam cradled old joints.

Dean swiveled his head from left to right and back as if watching a slow-motion tennis match, the better to listen as the family members babbled with each other and bombarded him with senseless questions about goblins and vampires and orcs and giants and weres and mutant swamp creatures and sentient trees. Elves. Dragons. Gods and goddesses and unicorns. Sex pollen.

He didn’t bother to answer, because they weren’t taking the time to pause long enough for the old hunter to shoehorn an answer into the nonstop chatter.

The food came, which dulled the cacophony to a subdued chorus of clanging silverware and sibling arguments over the restaurant’s epic steak fries. (Sally May had been generous with the servings, perhaps knowing that the family members would be muffled if their pie holes were stuffed with yummy Colorado potatoes smothered in spicy barbecue sauce.)

“Hell,” said Dean.

He didn’t raise his voice, but the five tourists halted their rambling inquisition and petty squabbling. Heads turned at the surrounding tables. The family members didn’t notice that no one else in the restaurant was talking, and their table was now cocooned in silence. Some braver neighbors leaned in a little to eavesdrop.

“Are you interested in a story about Hell and demons?”

There was something about how the old Hunter talked, like how the five visitors thought a legendary Prophet of the Lord should speak. Not just the amber whiskey voice, cracked with age. It was evident that Dean had personal experiences with Things. Dark Things. Just like in the books.

Even without seeing them, Dean knew he had the tourists in his thrall.

“So, maybe you heard about my little brother Sammy. Through all our struggles with the forces of evil, on this earth and a dozen parallel worlds, in Heaven and Hell, Purgatory and _The Empty_ , we were spiritually bonded, two parts of the same soul. Even God and Death Itself could not split us apart. I loved him, even after he was no longer human.

“We had been predestined to be the vessels of Michael and Lucifer during the Apocalypse. I was to be deployed as the Sword of Michael, and Sammy was to be crowned as the Boy King of Hell, possessed by the Fallen One. Brother against brother.”

No one spoke. Dean, apparently overcome by emotion, stopped, reached for his glass of water, and sipped. Sally May had appeared from the kitchen and was standing by his side with a fresh pitcher, listening to the story, stone-faced. As soon as the old man put down his glass, she refilled it, and left.

“Where was I?” Dramatic pause.

“So, in the end, the sovereignty of the individual soul, our love, and free will prevailed. But, for Sammy, the demon blood that poisoned him in the crib corrupted him in ways that we–me and the others who loved him–never knew. Time and again, his powers would resurface and retreat unpredictably. Prophetic dreams, superior strength, telekinetic powers, his genius, his ability to heal himself rapidly. A normal human could never have survived the damage he sustained on most hunts. And through it all, his soul, even when broken, shone bright.

“During the last war, _The Conflict,_ when everything changed, Sammy’s powers again revealed themselves, but this time in full force. He was our most valiant soldier, at the forefront of every engagement, sending squadrons of monsters into Purgatory and demons back to Hell or, in many cases, straight to _The Empty._

“The Hunters, the Men of Letters, the Talismen [civilians who supported the fight against supernatural evil, often underground], and our creature allies were prepared for the worst. Heaven had committed its resources to fighting alongside us, but, at the time, the Metatron betrayal and years of war had decimated Its numbers.

“And came a day when our side was not winning. The losses were too great. It was in the last meet-up where _this_ happened…

And with those words, Dean reached up and removed his glasses.

The family gasped in unison. Once again, Sally May appeared at his side. Placed a hand on his shoulder. Took the dark glasses and put them back on the old man. Did not look at the family and returned to servicing the other tables.

“Well, while I lay helpless and my best friend, the Angel Castiel, healed me from the effects of the blast from the Curse–you know about the Curse, I am betting, our equivalent of a nuclear bomb–Sammy led the charge, once again. He didn't run down into the battlefield, he flew above it on invisible wings, and his words, well, his voice was weaponized. Think of Superman in the old television shows blasting the black hats with just his breath. Awesome.

“Many hours later Sammy returned to the ridge where he left me for dead. Somewhere in western Kansas, I am told, the whole area is some big deal monument, like Gettysburg or the beaches of Normandy. I didn’t know he had survived until I felt his big moose arms hugging me. Heard and felt him crying.

“He kept saying that he was sorry. At first, I thought he was comforting me, apologizing for my injury, my own damn fault, you know, not paying attention. But then, I realized it was about something that happened, something that he did. I didn’t know what he meant at first.

“Turned out that when his demon powers were unleashed and he used them to destroy our enemies, he shifted, fundamentally. Without Lucifer or demonic possession, all on his own, he was now the True King of Hell. A monster, like when I took on the Mark of Cain and it turned me into a Knight of Hell.

“He was at the peak of his powers, and the unholy legions fled, back into Gehenna, Hades, the Inferno. Except his transformation came with a price. He no longer had a home on Earth.

“I am told his eyes blazed, red and gold. His hair turned white. His hands on my face burned hot as he tried to fix me, but the damage was even beyond his powers.

“He told me he had to go. He would reign in Hell, make it a better place, with healing and redemption.

“I couldn’t weep. No tears when your eyes have been taken out with the equivalent of an atomic blast. But I cried in his arms.

“He kissed me and told me that he would return, as often as he could, on the old pagan holidays, ruled by the phases of the moon and the turning of the seasons, on holy days designated by the younger religions, when pathways appeared between Hell and Heaven and Earth. Even though the main doors were now closed to most beings, he could travel on the strength of our love. Our immortal bond.

“He would be a man, he told me, when he visited, his powers curbed so he couldn’t accidentally hurt me or anyone else.

“Then, he left.

“Sammy could find me anywhere, but this is home for both of us. Our real home. So I stay.

“He comes to see me with his demonic hellhound, a great shaggy brute he calls Bones. Sammy’s hair remains the color of deep winter, white as the Chalk Pyramids west of here where he won. We all won.”

Another pause. Another sip of water.

It was as if the tourist family members, chastened, and all of the staff and customers in the café, collectively were holding their breaths and exhaled together.

“See that piece of prairie, to the west, out this window?”

Dean gestured to his left, the silver ring reflecting the glow from the lamps in the café like a lighthouse signaling _All Is Well_ to approaching ships, and the family members turned as one.

“When the sun is setting, on those days when the curtains to the other worlds are drawn back, he comes, emerging out of the trees in the meadow, regardless of the weather. Wears a fancy white coat and black boots: He likes to dress up a little. They tell me Bones dances by his side, happy to be with his benevolent master. Sammy carries a long walking stick, carved of ash wood. Anchors him to this world during his stays, so he tells me.

“He comes for an hour, a day, a week. Once, for a month in the dead of winter. During thirty days of Kansas blizzards and ice storms. Kept me warm.

“He never hurts anyone in Lebanon or surrounding Smith County. This is holy ground, and the folks who live here are pure souls. He would never touch an innocent. Locals know they are safe, maybe safer than most. Sort of an avenging Angel if he thinks someone is being harmed.

“Loves dogs; has a special circle in his domain for animal abusers and puppy mill owners and dogfight organizers and the like. Puppies and kittens fall under his protection.

“But…visitors…that’s another story. He is sort of judge-y, you know, comes with the job. It’s not like he does anything on purpose, but if someone has a dirty past, he knows. Best case, he'll banish them from Lebanon and Smith County. Worst case, well, I assume you’re good people. If he misunderstands, he’ll wait for someone he knows to speak up for you…like the good folks here at the café.”

Dean waved his hand in a wide circle, in the general direction of the other customers.  
  
The family members looked around the room. The expressions on the faces of the good folk of Lebanon did not reveal any affection for the tourists. It was doubtful the locals would stand up for them against the wrath of Hell’s King.

Finally, the father spoke up.

“How do you know when your brother’s coming?”

Dean grinned.

“That’s the cool thing, man. He sings! Old rock and pop, from like a hundred years ago. Sammy was never the best, you know, but it’s nice. I like listening to him. I told him that with his new superpowers he should grant himself a decent set of pipes, but he told me that’s not how it works. But I know it does. See, he’s my Sammy. Still a good man. Crazy, huh.”

Dean dug into his pie, and the spell he had woven with his tale was broken. The café came to life. People talked and ate and drank and laughed. Sally May returned and pointedly dropped a handwritten bill on the father’s plate, even though most of the food sat, untouched.

One of the teens spoke up.  
  
“But, we have questions, dude. Like, does Sammy have horns and a tail? Does he torture people? Can he fly? Does he have wings like a bat? Are you really brothers? Why are you wearing a ring on your finger; that’s like a wedding ring, right? Or, this is all made up, right? Just some lame story for the tourists. So, like, what’s the real story?”

Dean looked up from his pie. Once again, the room fell silent.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”  
  
And that’s when they heard the dog. A deep, happy, playful bark, coming from the direction of the trees.

He broke through the tree line into the meadow, racing for what looked like a ball, which had been thrown by an unseen hand.

Even from a distance, the beast looked huge. As big as an Irish wolfhound but more like one of those Turkish guard dog breeds. 200 pounds or more. Pale in the waning light.

And then they heard the song, drifting through the early evening air, carried on a breeze into the café. A scratchy old-man voice, singing slow and flat, falling out of tune every other sentence, flavored with a twang.

   

 

 

> _Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?_
> 
> _Come down from your fences, open the gate_
> 
> _It may be rainin', but there's a rainbow above you_
> 
> _You better let somebody love you (let somebody love you)_
> 
> _You better let somebody love you_
> 
> _Before it's too late._

 

And here came Sam, a snowy specter, just as Dean had described him. The white duster whipped around his long, jean-clad legs and high, black leather boots and was open to reveal a black shirt, tucked beneath a silver buckle and a black belt. His hair, a storm of silver, hung below his shoulders.

He strode purposely towards the café, and he seemed to lengthen his gait the closer he came. Behind him the rosy colors of the sunset had bled into a deep purple, and stars were peeking out from the black velvet of the night sky.

He used the staff to propel himself through the deep grass, as if he was steering a skiff through the reeds of a riverbank.

Bones bounded back to him, and without pause Sam wrenched the ball from a mouth filled with too many teeth and threw it almost to the edge of the grass, just next to the café. Someone had turned on the outside lights, illuminating the King and his dog.

The tourists’ retreat from the café was not pretty. Chairs were knocked over, and the family ran, to use a timeworn cliché, as if the Devil Himself were after them. The father slowed down only long enough to toss a hundred-dollar bill in the general direction of the cash register before he followed his family out the door. Almost immediately, the customers could hear a motor being gunned and a vehicle speeding away.

One of the off-duty cops stood up, strolled over to the money still fluttering on the floor, and picked it up. Walked over to Sally May and tucked it into the pocket of her apron, then bent her over the counter for a lingering kiss that was greeted by hoots and applause from the onlookers.

She straightened up, curtseyed to the audience, and went back to the cash register with a handful of money and paid bills to log in.

“Twenty years this June, and I still can’t keep my hands off her,” said the cop, taking a bow.

The back door opened and in came Sam and Bones. Another round of applause. The dog raced over to Dean, flopped on the floor, and whined. The demand for a belly rub was met. Meanwhile, Sam, appearing to be confused at the fuss, looked around the room at his friends and neighbors, searching for an explanation. Just big grins and fingers pointing at Dean.

He hung up his duster and propped the staff behind the coat rack. Walked over to greet his brother. Without the staff's support, a slight limp surfaced.

Sam saw the unfinished plates of food and the overturned chairs.

Not again.

“Oh, Dean,” he said, sounding disappointed. He bussed the table and righted the chairs over Sally May’s protests.

Sam fetched a bowl of water, crouched down, and placed it on the floor; Bones scrambled to his feet and drank deeply. Sam had something wrapped in a paper napkin that he had retrieved from a jar on a shelf next to the window into the kitchen. He pointed at one of the younger children in the room who, with a nod from a doting parent, practically tripped over her own feet as she skittered up to the table. He handed her Bones’ Very Special Bedtime Cookie, which Sally May turned out, a dozen at a time. It was an oversized dog biscuit, flavored with roast pumpkin puree and a filling of peanut butter.

Don't taste so bad, Dean had said, more than once. Insisted on personal testing each batch as he helped Sally May refine the recipe.

The little girl held the cookie up, as guided by Sam, and after a whispered command, Bones gingerly took it from her tiny hand. He gulped it down in two bites and licked her fingers in gratitude. She giggled and skipped back to her table for a hug from her parents.

Every night a different person was designated as the Bearer of the Cookie. Mostly children were picked by Sam’s unerring fair play instincts, making sure all had a turn over time. But sometimes his choice was in response to a text from a parent or friend. Chrissie had a bad day at school. Joe lost his favorite teddy bear on a trip to Kansas City. Or an adult needed something special. Someone received an unhappy diagnosis at the doctor’s or was dealing with money or family troubles. Or wanted to celebrate a marriage proposal or a promotion at work.

Bones had an infinite fountain of love to share.

Dean pulled out the mammoth pup's service harness and leash, which were draped over the back of his chair, and clucked to get the dog’s attention. Bones leaned against Dean and then stood patiently while the old man suited him up for work.

Bones collapsed again and drifted into a happy coma. Every night Sam took him out for a long run and play date to make up for the hours the dog stayed by Dean’s side to protect and support him. The long duster was white so Sam could safely be seen at dusk, his favorite time to exercise Bones while his blind brother ate in peace under Sally May’s care.

As usual, the good-humored waitress had cleaned up the small inland sea of dog dish water and the hill of wet cookie crumbs that Bones left, while Sam worked the room, saying hello to the remaining café customers. Most of the others had left after applauding Dean’s successful attempt at scaring the tourist family out of his territory, his version of “You kids get offa my lawn”.

_Deserved, totally. Had to keep from laughing out loud and blowing it. Dean put on a great show, Sam. Gets better every time._

Sam sat down opposite his brother, his lover, his husband. Reached over with his long arms, pulled Dean’s hands forward, leaned in, and kissed his knuckles. Their silver wedding bands flashed simultaneously as if a spark flew between them.

Without asking, Sally May brought a tray with a pot of hot water, a tea caddy, a big china coffee cup with Sam’s name on it, a small bowl of mixed nuts and dried fruit, and fresh silverware. Served Sam. Then took away Dean’s empty plate.

“Seconds?” asked Dean hopefully, knowing he had done wrong.

“Seconds,” said Sam, “Two glasses of milk, please. And cherry for me.”  
  
Sally May returned the order quickly, squeezed Sam’s shoulder, and left the old men alone.

They ate in peaceful silence.

“So, what version did you tell this time?” asked Sam.

“Oh, pretty generic,” said Dean. “King of Hell, saved the world, and you come to visit on major holidays. Bones is your hellhound.”

The big dog’s ears pricked up at his name, even as he slept.

“Wow,” said Sam.

“Were they annoying?” he asked his big brother.

“Yeah. Stupid, I guess. Sorry, Sammy.”

Sam stood up, walked around Bones’ inert form, and using the back of Dean’s chair for support, slowly lowered himself to his knees.

He cupped Dean’s face and kissed him properly.

“Your stories are more interesting than the truth, De. Probably are canon, now.”

Dean grinned in appreciation. Same happy boy as he was at sixteen.

The real truth? Sam did metamorphize in that last battle, but he had a choice when the war was won: Rule over Hell as an immortal or stay on Earth, powers diminished, with a 21st century lifespan and an uncertain future with Dean when the clock ran out.

As long as they were together, he didn’t care. They were Winchesters; they would figure it out. He would never know if Dean learned that he really had transformed into the King of Hell or about his choice.

They kissed again, and Sam slowly pulled himself up and stiff-walked back to his chair. He knocked over his teapot and, without thinking, flicked a finger. It righted itself and the spilled water poured back into the spout. If anyone noticed, they didn't say. It was something people never talked about in Lebanon, but we think everyone knew. Except maybe Dean.

Sally May had turned down the lights in the café, getting ready for the late evening date crowd and folks getting off second shift jobs. Flipped on a familiar soundtrack of mid-twentieth century love songs. Went around and, with long matches, lit the candles that sat at each table in sturdy glass and bronze holders. When she got to the old men, Sam pointed at the candle on their table. It flared up. She smiled and moved on.

“Great pie, Sammy,” said Dean. He sounded content.

Sam basked in the happiness of his version of Heaven.

His eyes glowed red and gold.

**Author's Note:**

> Desperado lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group  
> Songwriters: Glenn Lewis Frey / Don Hugh Henley  
> The Eagles
> 
> Love this song and consider it another Supernatural anthem
> 
> \-----
> 
> Left out some tags so that I wouldn't give away too much of the plot
> 
> Have always felt that Sam carried remnants of the Demon blood and its powers.
> 
> This tale was inspired by a classic short story, The Open Window, by Hector Hugh Munro, aka H. H. Munro or Saki.
> 
> http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/OpeWin.shtml


End file.
